I stood at the curb, watching the hopefuls lining up outside Caos Café. They had come to audition to become professional flirts. It’s a new job in Adelaide! Gotcha Enterprises has arrived. And it was holding auditions for fresh bait, to use in its business of catching out cheating partners. On behalf of their better, suspicious, halves.
Gotcha’s clients provide Gotcha with a photo of their partner and details of their day to day life. Then Gotcha sends out its flirts to intercept them, and test them, to see if they stray. Gotcha reports back to the client. And the future of the relationship follows.
I wanted to know more about this business, and its trade in distrust. And so, to get on the inside, to see how it works, I had come to audition to become a flirt. I crossed the street and joined the other auditionees, taking my place in the Myer catalogue they had formed.
Waiting in line, I felt the games had begun. I felt I should start flirting straight away. I struck up a conversation with the woman standing next to me.
“Nervous?”
“I am after seeing everyone else…. there’s so much competition.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m sure they’re after more than one look.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Nothing! “Just have a look the queue.”
“You mean all the Barbie Dolls?”
I nodded in silence, yet the woman grew louder.
“Well, if they’re Barbie Dolls, what the hell am I?… Ken?”
Oh God. “Look, there are more than two looks!”
And I drew some nasty ones from the Barbie queue.
Moving up to the front of the line, I learned it was no ordinary audition. It was a special audition. It cost twenty five bucks to walk through the door. One by one, we paid up.
At least a grand, just on the door.
I took a registration form and name badge, tripping over a TV crew on my way in. There were two radio crews at work and some Vodafone guys slinking around near the toilets. And in a far corner sat a woman, conducting her interviews.
I sat down with my form. It sought my personal details. It sought my bank account details. I filled it in as I waited. And in time, I was called up for my interview.
I met Kirri Cleveland, psychologist, sexologist.
“I started Gotcha a few months ago,” she said giving me her business card. It flattered with a picture of her silhouette. It had to be her silhouette from a few years ago.
We sat at a table opposite each other. She did not want to know much about me. She established that I was educated and available (to work and to play), I had access to transport, a computer and a mobile phone. Though, not a phone that receives photos.
“Well, you’re gonna need a new phone,” said Kirri. “Which is why I’ve invited Vodafone to come along tonight. You can go see them now if you like.”
Of course.
After Kirri (and Vodafone) had interviewed everyone, she started her group presentation. She introduced an accountant to explain the subcontracting arrangements, handing around his business card. By the end of the man’s ramble, I was beginning to wonder if someone from the café was going to do a presentation on cakes.
But, more than two hours in, Kirri got down to business. She described herself as a cheated on bitter ex-girlfriend and a co-conspirator in infidelity. And as a cheated on cheater, she reckoned she is qualified to know that anyone who cheats is a bastard (or bitch). And they deserve to be caught.
Though, for Kirri, some things ought to be fair in love and in war. Kirri has rules. Never drink alcohol when on the job. Always be careful to guard open drinks. No suspenders. No in your face cleavage. Always wear a bra.
“Of course, these rules are for girls, not for the guys,” said Kirri for predictable laughs. “We’ve never actually caught out a woman, but our strike rate on men is about sixty percent.”
I started to feel guilty.
“We send our people out in twos. So you blokes could get work as wing men, but most of our work for men is in catching gay men.”
Now I wasn’t quite sure what to feel.
“It’s time to learn how to flirt!” said Kirri with a faded, knowing look in her eye.
Kirri explained that the idea is to get the potential strayer to verbalise their straying ways. Get them to say they are single and keen. Preferably by SMS! Then you really have something shocking to show to the spouse. Never send a text message like: ‘Do you want a shag?’. Kirri recommends something subtle like: ‘Do you like wine? I have a lovely couple of bottles at home. Would you like to partake?”.
“Get them to make the move,” said Kirri. “It’s not entrapment, you’re just providing them with an opportunity to get caught. Now, I’ve arranged for some more men to come along tonight, so we can practice flirting in role plays!”
The café owner’s mates had arrived. They leaned on the bar with well dressed elbows clutching scotch glasses. They were hoping to get lucky. They were our targets. I got lucky. I targeted Kirri.
She played the blabbermouth. I approached with my wing woman to pick her up, but just could not do it. The woman would not shut up! Not even when I promised to send her a suggestive text message.
We continued role playing for a while until Kirri decided she had seen enough and brought things to a close.
“Well that’s about it. Are there any last questions?”
A few voiced lingering doubts about the ethics of the business, but Kirri soothed away their concerns with expert technique. Someone questioned the legality of the scheme. Kirri made light of such issues, glossing over the requirement to be licensed under the Security and Investigation Agents Act. And failing to mention the twenty thousand dollar fine for a breach.
Then someone asked a question which not even Kirri could answer.
“What happens if a guy comes after you because you’ve ruined his marriage?”
“You haven’t ruined his marriage,” Kirri gushed. “He ruined it himself!”
“But he might not see it that way. And he might come after you… Then what?”
The room went a little too quiet. Kirri paused for a little too long. She did not have an answer. Bust up someone’s marriage; someone might bust up you. She retreated into a story about a romance between a Gotcha girl and the guy she was meant to get.
“…and that’s the closest thing to a problem we’ve had in over one hundred jobs.”
One hundred jobs and no problems. Fine. But what about one thousand jobs? Ten thousand jobs? I do not like them odds. And Kirri did not like that question. She announced the auditions were over and readied to leave.
“What happens now?” somebody asked.
“Well,” said Kirri clutching her cash box. “I’ve got your details, and I’ll let you know… But first I fly to Melbourne. And I do this all over again!”